Questions
by ibohemianam
Summary: What is wrong with Watson?
1. Chapter 1

It was a cold, wintery evening in late January. A fire roared in the hearth, spreading its warmth through the chill sitting room. Watson sat in his customary chair beside the fire; Holmes reclined, catlike, on the couch, half-lit, half-forgotten pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth.

The comfortable silence they had come to love had long since settled over the two, fire-sound punctuated only by the doctor's occasional page turn. At length, when the fire began to crackle, not roar, the doctor gently closed his book and set it down on the armchair. He stood with a low grunt and gathered his robe around him.

"I'll be off to bed now, Holmes," he announced with a sigh, "Good night."

He shuffled to the door and closed it softly behind him.

His companion glanced at the clock as he left. Half-past eight. The doctor had been retiring earlier and earlier, rising later and later, sometimes only an hour before noon. Holmes took a contemplative puff on his pipe, calmly watching the smoke drift away before him, drifting, drifting.

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><p><em>Why did no one tell me about my typo! I'm so embarrassed!<em>


	2. Chapter 2

_Good morning/afternoon/evening! I just wanted to let you all know that I will be taking suggestions about the direction of this story. I originally intended for these snippets to be completely unrelated, but I thought Hades Lord of the Dead's idea would be pretty cool. Updates will probably be around once a week or so, once things have died down around here.  
>Read on! :) <em>

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><p>It was nighttime again, the next day, cold and frost in the air. Holmes blinked lazily at the ceiling and counted the halting steps of his companion on the stairs, wondering what on earth could have dragged the doctor out into the cold on a day such as this. At long last (after an interminable delay after the fifteenth step), the doctor limped into the sitting room, collapsing into his armchair with a sharp sigh. Even his shoulder was hurting him, Holmes noted. What had he been up to? Holmes opened his mouth to make some cryptic remark or another, but with surprise realized that his companion had fallen asleep, mouth partly open, head cocked awkwardly against the back of the chair.<p>

He closed his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

_Happy 200th birthday, Mr. Dickens!_

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><p>Cold, hard sunlight streamed in through the half-drawn curtains of the sitting room at 221B Baker Street, illuminating the dust particles floating in mid-air, the cold snap having given way for a while to slushy mugginess. Holmes sat alone with his breakfast, newspaper spread across the half-eaten slab of cold ham in front of him, one corner drooping into the dregs in the coffee pot. The agony column was worthy only of the to-be-burned pile by the fireplace, he declared at last, snapping the paper closed and hurling it absently across the room, turning back to his neglected meal. The rustling of the paper on its ill-tempered flight was abruptly interrupted by a sharp smack and an indignant squawk.<p>

Holmes jerked his head up from the remains of his cold ham to meet the irritated glare of his flatmate, the _Daily News_ plastered across his face.

"Ah… My apologies, Watson," Holmes said delicately, "I did not expect you to be up so early."

Watson harrumphed, peeled the coffee-stained paper from his face, and flung it into the fire. He stalked to the table and sat down with a grunt.

Holmes surreptitiously glanced at his companion over the brim of his mug as he rang for Mrs. Hudson. Through by no means a fussy man, the doctor, in true military fashion, had always refused to ever appear in anything less than his sharpest dress. The man sitting across from Holmes, however, was rumpled and unshaven, clad in yesterday's shirt and a creased dressing gown.

Wondering what he should say without appearing overbearing (really, Mycroft would have a field day if he knew of these efforts for civility), a sudden thunder of footsteps on the stairs jolted him back to reality (where his calculating mind immediate sprang back into legitimate action). An enormous, bearded man, East End mud on his trousers, threw open the door to the sitting room, ignoring the distant wails of Mrs. Hudson.

The effect on Watson was immediate. He sprang to his feet, nearly overturning the table in the process, and demanded tersely, "What's happened?"

The Man-Bear (ex-sailor, left-handed, recently fallen on hard times) wheezed for breath and rumbled out a winded, "He needs you. Now."

Without another word, Watson limped for the door, sweeping up his doctor's bag from where it lay discarded by foot of the couch. With a mighty swirl of dressing-gown and shuffle of slippers, the doctor disappeared down the stairs.

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><p><em>What do you think?<em>


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks so much for the reviews! :)_

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><p>It took Holmes only a moment to make his decision. After a quick glance out the window determined that a cab was waiting, he set down his fork (which had frozen, along with his hand, in midair with the advent of The Man-Bear), grabbed his coat, and rushed down the stairs. Brushing by a spluttering Mrs. Hudson, he flew out the door just as the cabbie whipped up his horse. With the same swinging stride that had served him well in many similar circumstances before, he bounded from the curb and landed with hardly a sound on the axle between the two hind wheels, secreting himself out of sight of the driver.<p>

The Man-Bear shouted something hoarsely, and the cabbie cried to his horse, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone increasing in tempo. _Allegro_, thought Holmes, then as they careened around a tight corner quickly corrected himself dryly, knuckles white, _prestissimo_. The wind shrieked across his face, and he closed his eyes, lips pressed tightly together. He felt every turn that the cab made deep in his joints, an unwelcome reminder that perhaps he wasn't young enough to be doing this anymore. Through street after street, sloshing through slush puddles and barreling up barren inclines, he clung to the cab for dear life, arms cramping, mouth dry. On and on and on they rattled, always at that breakneck pace, until he lost track of where they were. Time blurred into a breathless whirl of sounds and smells until at last with a mighty "_Whoa, there_!" they shivered to a stop. Prying himself from his death grip on the cab, Holmes wriggled free of his hiding-place, landing with a soft _plop_ in a perfectly round mud-puddle.

Watson and The Man-Bear clambered out of the cab and rushed through the wrought-iron fence that surrounded a dry, barren yard. Neither of them noticed the elderly, mud-splattered man lounging under a gas-lamp at the street corner. The Man-Bear fumbled with his keys, and when he had turned the lock, all but smashed the creaky door in. The two men disappeared into the gloomy darkness of the squat little house, in their haste forgetting to shut the door behind them.

Holmes stood and shrugged off thirty years, though not the mud, surveying his surroundings. It was a narrow street, slick with melting snow, the remains of which remained dazzling in the morning sunlight. A quick flick of his eyes told him that he was in the better part of East End, not as if that was saying much. Even the reluctant trees in the odd yard glared at him with silent animosity. Blinking in annoyance at this fanciful turn of his calculating mind, Holmes turned and focused on the little house with the open door.

Peeling, crumbling white paint. Definitely not up to current building standards, or anything within the past decade, to say the least. Windows with shutters, not curtains. Everything empty, half-dead or dying.

Holmes picked his way silently across the yard, and slipped up the two steps to the door. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then stepped over the threshold into the murky gloom

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><p><em>Well? :)<em>


	5. Chapter 5

_Further up and further in!_

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><p>In hindsight, it probably wasn't the most intelligent course of action to step into a dark room where half of whose known occupants looked far more than capable of throwing two Sherlock Holmses through the front window. Unfortunately, however, this thought did not at all manifest itself in the great Sherlock Holmes's mind until a fist the size of one of Mrs. Hudson's frying pans drove itself into his stomach.<p>

He staggered several large steps back into the hall, wheezing for breath, arms flailing. Watson gave a hoarse, startled cry and lunged for the poker by the hearth, apparently failing to recognize him as well.

"Wait!" Holmes gasped, clutching his stomach, "Watson… It's me. Holmes."

"Do you know this man, John?" The Man-Bear rumbled, pan-fist cocked, ready to let loose another great swing.

Watson squinted at him in the half-light of the hall.

"Holmes?"

"Fancy seeing you here, old chap." Holmes wheezed drily.

The doctor offered him the other end of the poker, which Holmes seized as Watson pulled him to his feet, saying gruffly, "Mr. David Lewis, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Good to meet you, sir," Holmes greeted, grasping the proffered paw, "I apologize for the intrusion."

Lewis smiled grimly, now looking less like a bear from hell and more like Mrs. Hudson's old terrier.

"Pleased to meet you too, sir. I've heard so much about you," he rumbled. (Holmes revised his last thought: Not old terrier. More like Toby's mother, that crotchety old hound capable of all extremes of expression.)

"You were following me," Watson stated flatly, face devoid of expression.

"I…" Holmes opened his mouth to protest, but for some reason, his mind failed him, leaving him gaping like a fish, "Yes," he said at last with some belligerence, "Yes. I was."

Watson's eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. That _blasted_ pride.

Before the situation could erupt into a full-blown fist cuffing match (as it was, the temperature had already risen several degrees), a disembodied voice quavered down the hall, a high-pitched child's cry.

"Father…" the voice whispered, "Father?"

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><p><em>Hi everyone! Thanks so much for all the support-this is my first (published) story after all. I'm actually heading off on a trip this Friday, so updates might be a little more sporadic (especially with this temperamental laptop of mine). A note about this story: everything after Chapter 2 was made up on the fly in class, on the bus, in airports, under my table (yes, you read that right), and in some of the strangest circumstances ever. I would usually take a LOT longer than thirty seconds to plan out a chapter, but this has really been so much more fun than I thought it would be-I just keep going. Once again (before this note becomes longer than the chapter), I just want to thank you so much for reading (and reviewing). <em>


	6. Chapter 6

All three of them froze.

The old sailor shattered the silence with a sharp gasp as he bolted to the bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar. A half-breath later, Watson followed, limping badly, face ashen.

Holmes hesitated, fists still clenched from the last moment's forgotten ego war. He took a tentative half step to the bedroom door, realizing now the horror of what was happening inside. Leaning cautiously against the doorframe and peering into the room, he stifled a sigh, hands twitching in frustration at his helplessness, at the knowledge that there was nothing he could have done before or could do now, yet chafing at the simple callousness of that greatest opponent—death.

He watched Lewis fall to his knees by the cot under the window in the far corner of the room, placing a small hand on the boy's tousled head, whispering words of comfort through shining eyes and quavering lips. He watched Watson reach into his bag with hands that had never before trembled with such severity. He closed his eyes and heard the ragged breathing, the hoarse, hacking coughs. The final rattle of the throat, Lewis's hitching breaths turning to heartrending sobs. Murmured, stammered apologies, condolences. Watson did not even glance up as he brushed past Holmes, his face pale, tightly set.

Holmes watched him go.

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><p><em>Sorry for the waitshort chapters! :( I'm heading off to NYC soon, so it'll be another two weeks at least. :(  
>Thanks for the support! :D <em>


	7. Chapter 7

_I'm back (and in desperate need of sleep)!_

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><p>Holmes took a cab back to Baker Street the conventional way, bundled up in his still-dripping coat, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The cab clattered along through the clogged, muddy streets, no excitement to break the sudden monotony. A strange silence fell over this lone passenger who stared morosely at the grey sky reflected in the grey puddles that were never at rest, always so violently disturbed by the heedless passer-by. He half-expected Watson to break into his thoughts at any moment, to question his somber mood with that equally loved and dreaded, "Holmes?" But the seat beside him was empty and silent, and all that ever could have loved and been loved was gone.<p>

The cab twitched to a stop, and Holmes clambered out, silently paying the cab driver. He paused on the doorstep, recognized the faint traces of familiar muddy boots and pronounced limp, steeled himself, and pushed open the door.

He tossed his coat onto the rack and made a cursory attempt at scraping the mud off his shoes, gently closing the door behind him and staggering up the stairs, tucking his frozen hands into his armpits. Cautiously, he poked his head into the sitting room, which returned this action with an unusually cold, stony silence.

In the dim light of the hall, he saw the footprints ascending the stairs and turning into the doctor's room. There was no light under the door. Holmes retreated into the sitting room, stirring up the listless coals in the sudden darkness.

He reached for his pipe and ratty dressing gown, forgoing the comfort of the couch for the warmth of the rug directly in front of the fire. There was a distant rumble, and he glanced out the window to catch a jagged light arc across the sky. A fat water droplet smacked against the window pane with startling suddenness.

Curious, Holmes rose and flung open the window, a roiling wave of muggy heat flooding into the room, along with a few equally plump raindrops that drove themselves into the window sill. He blinked in confusion. A rain storm… in January? Where on earth had this come from? Another, louder groan issued forth from the looming cloud bank, and Holmes took this as his cue to slam the windows closed and yank the curtains shut, plunging the room into a darkness punctuated only by the weakly crackling fire. He returned to his previous position in front of the hearth, savoring the warmth on his face, leaning his head against the armchair and listening to the rhythm of the rain.

The firelight played against the sharp angles of his face, and he almost forgot the reason for his solitude. He reached for his violin and bow, absently plucking out a few notes, a simple progression in E. Building on this, he arpeggiated a few chords, tip-toed up and down the major scale. He put the bow to the strings and scraped away with the rain as his beat. His music surged with the fire, subsided with the whispered driving rain, and he continued on, fiddling madly through the crescendoing booms, the great lightning flashes, until at last, everything reached a breaking point. A fumbled double stop. A broken window latch. A shifting log. The final crash of the present storm.

And a wild cry from the room above.

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><p><em>Well?<em>


	8. Chapter 8

_Yay! I finally have power...  
><em>_Sorry for the awful wait. I'm a little rusty, so let me know how this goes, yes?_

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><p>Holmes froze, heart pounding, as rain streamed in through the now-open window. Indecision struck him harder than the storm that shivered the windows. It was new. And completely foreign. Wrenching himself back to the present when his wavering bow skittered across the strings, he noticed with some mild alarm that his inkpot was close to floating out of the vase by the window. Gently setting aside his violin, he rose with catlike grace and shuffled to the window, frowning at the broken latch. One pale hand held the storm at bay while the other undid the cloth belt that held his dressing gown closed. A few knots later, the window was again held closed, shivering now against the ineffectually raging wind. Ruefully wringing out his sleeves, Holmes briefly surveyed the damage and deemed it minimal.<p>

He hesitated again—what had come over him? Staring morosely at the guttering fire, he steeled himself for what had to be done. Tucking the flaps of the dressing gown under his arms he set out for the stairs, pausing on the landing in consternation. He trudged up the final flight of stairs and put a tentative hand on the door as if he could discern the state of its occupants by feeling the worn wooden surface. Another peal of thunder shook the very foundations of the flat, and Holmes, caught unawares, staggered shoulder-first into the door, which gave way with a crash, sending him reeling into the dark room. His foot caught the leg of the only chair in the room, sending the grand detective Sherlock Holmes sprawling ignominiously across the bedroom floor. Half-stunned, Holmes blinked at the weeping dust balls gathered in the corner of the room that somewhat resembled the result of that singular experiment with the bar of soap and the rays of afternoon sun concentrated through several lenses that had produced some absolutely fascinating results and left an unfortunate hole in the rug, which had provoked the ire of—

—Watson.

Holmes sat bolt upright as a flash of lightning, accompanied by another startling crack of thunder, lit up the room. And in the ensuing silence, a very audible _click_. Holmes stiffened. He recognized the sound immediately. Another flash of lightning, and, indeed, there sat Doctor John H. Watson, ensnared in his blankets, with his cocked service revolver pointed straight at Sherlock Holmes.

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><p><em>Thanks for sticking this through-it shouldn't be any more than two, three chapters (at most) more. And more (good) news-I'm on holiday this week (the joys of studenthood!), so this should be finished relatively soon. Review!<em>


	9. Chapter 9

_It's been a while, hasn't it? Just a warning for this chapter-it gets pretty dark and is loaded with triggers. Wouldn't I know._

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><p>Holmes opened his mouth in confusion, and for the second time that day, words failed him.<p>

A tentative "Watson?" was all he managed before there was another crash that made his ears ring. Holmes blinked in utter disbelief. That hadn't been thunder. That was—He saw the trembling hand tighten again around the trigger and dove for the foot of the bed, pressing himself up against the footboard. He needn't have bothered; the shot went at least a foot wide. Instead of comforting him, however, that fact left him more worried than ever. Watson hardly ever missed moving targets fifty meters away, but he had just missed a goggle-eyed, frozen detective seated on his bottom a mere _five_ meters away. There was another shot, another growl of thunder, and a choking cry almost drowned out by the rattling of the window-panes. Several rumbles and flashes passed, and Holmes peeked out from behind the headboard and felt that same sudden icy chill settle over him, the one that seized his very soul as he clung for dear life beneath the Falls and listened to Watson shout his name.

"Watson," he whispered, hardly able to hear himself over the shuddering window panes. He licked his lips and tried again, choking on these familiar alien words, "My dear Watson."

Those hazel eyes, once so bright and full of life, stared back at him without recognition, filled only with grief. And anger, a deep-rooted frustration, buried deep beneath layers and layers of shame and loss.

Holmes slowly rose to his feet, arms in front of him, palms up, a gesture of peace. What on earth else was he supposed to do? "Watson, please," he whispered, "Please, old chap." He stepped towards the pale, unkempt figure, almost a ghost, far too close. Gently reached out, took the gun from his shaking hands, set it down on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed. Holmes sighed, "Watson—"

The doctor turned away, trembling hands clenched, a faint sheen of sweat soaking his shirt. "Don't," he croaked, "Holmes, please. Just go."

"No."

Watson whipped his head back around in considerable surprise. They both knew Holmes's attitude towards personal interactions, and though the man himself looked as surprised as his flatmate that the word had come out of his mouth, he set his jaw and glared back.

"Tell me, Watson," Holmes murmured, abruptly looking away, grey eyes uncharacteristically bright, "How, in good conscience, can I leave you now? I have turned from you far too many times these past months. My negligence is most unforgiveable."

Watson sagged against the headboard, drawing a thin hand across his eyes, whispering, "As is mine, Holmes, so much so that you should be ashamed to be named as my friend."

"No, Watson," Holmes grasped the man's shoulder and forced eye contact, "You are not to blame. You are not to blame for _anything_."

The doctor looked away, staring at the revolver lying innocuously on the ground by Holmes's foot. The detective, following his glance, kicked it out of sight.

"_Enough_," he growled, nonexistent patience evaporating into the storm, "I, for myself, know full well what has transpired, but that does not mean that you are allowed to let tonight's, or _any_ of this," he gestured with his free hand, "fall away into that peculiar mind of yours and lie stifled by the layers of your blasted good nature. You are bound to face everything again, and if my experience has provided any ounce of wisdom, it will show that time, contrary to popular belief, does _not_ heal all. If left untended, it grows until the gas lamp bursts and everything goes up in flames." He paused, gathering his wits, then spoke earnestly, grey eyes pleading for understanding, "My dear, Watson, I would do _anything_ in my power to keep you from this. Anything. You _must_ trust me on this."

Watson nodded mutely , taking the intensity to heart and seeing again that man he had forgotten actually existed behind Sherlock Holmes, the cold, calculating detective.

Holmes stood and bent over, righting the fallen wooden chair and settling into it, feet propped up on the bed. "But now," he said, "Now is time for rest. Any efforts to remove me will result in violence on my part and unsightly bruises on yours. Do be a good chap and get, as our American cousins should say, some 'shut eye.'"

He drew his dressing gown tighter around his thin frame and withdrew a sheaf of loosely bound papers from a pocket, smoothing them out against his thigh and proceeding to pore over them as if nothing at all had happened.

A bewildered Watson sank back beneath the covers and felt a warm sense of security dulling his senses to the easing patter of rain. Untapped springs of grief still stirred below the surface, but gone was the sense of urgency, of helplessness. He closed his eyes and drifted off.

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><p><em>My writing is probably slightly rusty, but I hope everything wasn't too OOC. This chapter basically sums up everything that's been happening, both in the story itself and in my life. One more chapter to go! It should be up sometime this week.<em>


	10. Chapter 10

_Well, here it is. The final chapter of this (hopefully not too) dreadful story. Thanks for sticking with me (especially those of you that have survived my sporadic, temperamental updates) through my first adventure down this adventure-road of castles in the sky._

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><p>There was a companionable silence once more in the sitting room. The doctor reclined in his armchair, somewhat pale and drawn, but gone was the desperation from his eyes. The fire crackled merrily. Holmes shifted slightly from his supine position on the couch and cleared his throat quietly.<p>

"I would have thought you had already deduced the ins and outs of my sad tale," Watson said lightly, setting his book down on the armrest.

Without breaking eye contact with the ceiling, Holmes murmured, "I am not entirely heartless, my dear Watson."

The doctor pressed his lips together and closed his book, resigning himself to what lay ahead.

"I knew David in my time overseas," he said quietly, "We returned together, nearly beaten to death by what had happened. His wife had died in the week or so before he was wounded, leaving his son without a home. We parted ways when he returned," he paused, and Holmes heard the shadowed shame in the statement. "He sought me out last November. His son was ill." A simple statement that lingered on in the ensuing silence.

"There is more," Holmes murmured.

Watson glanced at the detective in surprise, which soon became resignation. He nodded slowly in acquiescence. "Yes," he whispered, "There is more."

Holmes waited.

"David Lewis," Watson continued slowly, "was not always known as David Lewis." He hesitated, and Holmes could feel the tension roll over him in waves, "When I met him, David Lewis was David Morstan."

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><p><em>Yes, that was the end. THE. END.<em>


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